Time in Technicolor
by Alias424
Summary: Darkness implied shade and sleep, but this was something else entirely: a painful prism that burst like fireworks into a dozen shades of smoking, sparking red. HouseCuddy
1. Tuesday, 5:37 PM

**It was really only a matter of time before my House/Cuddy muse started up again. This plot bunny may not be especially fluffy (yet), but it was begging to be written all the same**—**and in a Monty Python white rabbit kind of way, so I thought it best not to ignore it.  
The usual disclaimer: sadly, House and Cuddy still don't belong to me.**

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**_Tuesday Nov. 13, 5:37 PM _**

"For the last time, get your damn hands _off_ me!"

He struggled against those who were trying to hold him down with a force reminiscent of hormone-laden, high school brawls—when all that mattered was the solidity of your own knuckles, the crack of bones (hopefully someone else's), and the affections of the girl you were trying to win over. The rush of adrenaline had been tremendous, was still going strong, and though the two female nurses that were trying to pacify him (and the male doctor that had been pulled in for sheer muscle alone) formed two-thirds of a fantasy, after the events of the last hour, he wasn't about to let anyone hold him down against his will.

One of the nurses stumbled backwards, overturning a tray of instruments in her effort to maintain balance. They had called for both security and restraints the moment they had seen him, but (not surprisingly) neither had arrived. It was the umpteenth time he had pushed this nurse away since arriving at the hospital only a few minutes ago, yet still she was (stupidly) trying to reason with him. "Dr. House. You're going to have to—"

"House."

Finally, someone who would listen to him. Or, at the very least, knew better than to try to restrain him. House turned in the general direction of the door, all red-heat and anger. "Tell these morons I don't need—"

"Just…." It was a good beginning, but Wilson seemed unsure where to go from there. House watched his friend's lips press together—a thin, worried line—as he surveyed the chaos, and at last he took a breath and held out a hand. "Sit down."

"What the hell makes you think I'm gonna listen to you?" House asked defiantly, realizing too late that he had already stopped fighting against the three pairs of hands—one of them suddenly, suspiciously, holding a syringe in the air, ready to take aim and fire.

"You're not going to do much good bleeding all over the place."

"It's not mine," House muttered, trying not to feel the scratchy stiffness where the blood on his shirt and coat had already dried, and worse, the sticky chill in the places where it was still wet, had flowed much more thickly.

"That gash on your head says some of it is."

Now this came as something of a surprise. House wasn't in pain—none at all, even his leg—and perhaps that should've been the first sign that something was amiss. He brought a hand up to his forehead and pulled it slowly away only to frown at his fingertips, glistening red. Taking the cloth that Wilson held out to him, he pressed it to the wound, the gesture seeming to flick a switch somewhere inside the back of his head. Admittance of injury was the first step in defeat, and the pain was beginning, swiftly—or returning, because he remembered it now as it had woken him earlier: an Acela Express appearing like lightning out of a hidden tunnel and leaving him in flattened pieces on the tracks.

"I've got this," Wilson stated softly, nodding to the nurses and doctor that still had House surrounded. There was the distinct odor of swift, momentary disappointment. As lost and concerned as the ER staff had appeared upon their arrival, neither of those were enough to curb the hunger for juicy, sizzling gossip, and as they started towards the door, House had the sudden, distinct image of a pack of dogs that had just missed an opportunity to sink their teeth into an unguarded t-bone steak.

"How many fingers?" Wilson asked after a moment, his hand so close to House's face that that alone would have made it difficult to count.

"I'm not an idiot."

"Humor me," Wilson responded on a sigh.

"Not in a humoring mood."

"There might be a higher dose of pain meds in it for you."

"You better not be jerking me around." He pushed at Wilson's fist to move the fingers back into focus. His own hands were stained scarlet, and Wilson's were streaked now, too, though he should have been wearing gloves. "Three."

"What's your—?"

"Greg House. Tuesday. November. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. New Jersey," House spat out in one rushed breath, standing. "We done?"

_How do I know you're answering the right questions?_ Wilson might normally have teased. Instead, House felt a hand on his shoulder, almost gentle. "No. Sit."

Why House slid so easily back down onto the exam table was beyond him. Even Wilson seemed unsure of what to do in light of this unexpected docility, finally bending to pick up the first-aid supplies that had scattered across the room. It was suddenly, inexplicably, stifling, and House shrugged out of his coat, letting it drop to the table behind him.

"I don't think…." Wilson paused as he rose, eyes widening. "Your leg. Why didn't you say anything?"

Mechanically, House pressed it, felt nothing but the usual ache slightly magnified, though the blood staining his jeans was still wet, so dark it was almost black. The pain of the memory was worse: his leg between hers as he'd slammed into consciousness, the hot liquid dribbling down his fingers, his hand, his wrist as he'd carried her. "It's fine."

"You should let me—"

"_No_." And it was sharp, commanding—so much so that Wilson recoiled as if bitten, hands quickly at his sides. There was an awkward moment of silence: Wilson didn't seem to know what to say, and House did, but took his time, nodding at the stain on his jeans and repeating, "Not mine."

Wilson braced himself to respond but only got as far as clearing his throat, fumbling so much as he tried to open an antiseptic wipe that House grabbed it from him, ripping the package with his teeth and spitting out the paper that stuck to his lip. Taking the wipe, Wilson began to scrub at the gash on his forehead and House jerked away reflexively. "Jeez! Sadist. _Give_ me that."

But Wilson was a medical marvel, had somehow grown balls within the last thirty seconds and refused to be bullied, holding the cloth out of reach with one hand and grabbing at House's wrist with the other, all sternness and conviction and this-is-for-your-own-good. "Sit still."

"You have two minutes," House growled. At any other time he might have found this show of strength amusing, but as he vaguely felt Wilson poke and prod at the wound on his forehead, he heard for the first time the muffled sounds of activity through the closed trauma room door.

"Doesn't look like you need stitches, but—"

House jerked out of Wilson's grip the moment he felt gauze and adhesive. "Two minutes are up."

"That was more like thirty seconds. You need a head CT."

"Not unless you can do one in the next minute and twenty-five seconds." Searching for his cane, he remembered that he wouldn't find it, and the few steps to the door were slow and painful.

"Fine. Later." Wilson's voice was still behind him but approaching, was suddenly right beside him. "House…. What the hell happened out there?"

**

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**_Tuesday Nov. 13, 4:48 PM_**

If there was one thing House knew well, it was pain.

The pain of sex, bordering (surpassing) pleasure. The ache after a good workout. The prickle of sunburn. The twinge of a stubbed toe. The sudden sting of a paper-cut. The shooting pang of a jammed elbow. A fist to the eye (the chin, the cheekbone, the…), the nauseous throbbing of a migraine, the (satisfying) slice of a sharp blade, the agony of dead (lost) muscle, the explosion of a gunshot.

But the strange thing about the pain that woke him this time was that it was from his head – a steady throbbing that pulsed with his heartbeat. He couldn't feel his leg.

Displacement. It was all he could think of and even that just barely. Something had happened to confuse him or his nerves, and it was his leg he felt, really, but… it was still dark when he opened his eyes. No, even that wasn't right. Darkness implied shade and sleep—cool, soothing—but this was something else entirely: a painful prism that burst like fireworks into a dozen shades of smoking, sparking red.

"Fuck."

Something jerked underneath him, and he recognized the press of a body under his own as if it had only just materialized there: a shoulder digging into his chest, his hand splayed over the curve of a hip, his own thigh warm between two others.

For half-a-second, it unfolded like a moment drawn straight from a memory—old, slightly dusty, but still comfortable after all those years, and perhaps even more so because of them. If the familiar feel of her and swift intake of breath hadn't been enough for recognition, the next second would have clinched it, even if the tone was never one he had heard from her before.

"House?"

The raw breathlessness of the sound chilled him and he cursed again, under his breath this time, his brain spinning as he tried to remember anything: what had happened, where they had been, how the hell they had ended up broken and breathless in a dark clump of trees. He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, forced them open, and it was like looking through cracked glass, but it was enough. His hand shook as he reached out and he hoped she didn't notice though there was no way she could have missed it as he tentatively ran his fingertips across the first stretch of skin he found: the line of her jaw.

It was dark, only a strange dim light flickering from somewhere that wasn't at all helpful, especially when it caught on the blood oozing down her forehead, her cheek, the curve of her neck. House thrust it as far from his mind as he could, focused on the pale bit of smooth, untouched skin just over her suprasternal notch.

Manubrium, sternum, xiphoid process, fourteen real rib bones, ten false—it was almost all too easy to forget, compartmentalize.

"When I said I wanted you on your back…" he mumbled, pulling himself off her as quickly as he could, still talking, still teasing, as if nothing were wrong. In the epic, instinctual decision amongst fight, flight, or sneer, the last always took the least amount of effort. "…this wasn't what I had in mind."

"Shut up, House."

But she was still going at it too, and they could very well have been back at her office, what with them acting so normally: him making thinly-veiled passes at her (cleverly disguised as insults), while she pretended not to pick up on his hints, could never seem to stop that smile.

It surprised him that she was so calm and collected, but it shouldn't have, really; she couldn't have become Dean of Medicine on looks alone. The truth of the matter was that the world could come crashing down around them—meteors, forked lightning, demonic spirits: total Armageddon—and still nothing about their bittersweet, sometimes twisted relationship would ever change, the playful banter as searing and thick as July air.

His face was pressed close to hers as he tried to see enough to gauge her injuries, and he felt her eyelids flutter closed against his check.

"Cuddy." He squeezed her arm gently, immediately regretting the move when she groaned, a quick, "Sorry," spilling out of him because it seemed the only thing to say.

"It must look pretty bad to make _you_ apologize for something."

"You'll be fine," he bit back much too sharply, trying to picture the grin that would flash across her face whenever she thought she had one-upped him. "Head wounds always—"

"You're lying," she whispered, almost accusatory, though he could sense the strain. "You don't know that."

Maybe she had some kind of sixth sense, could smell the fear as easily as he could pick up on the lingering scent of her perfume even through the crimson stench of blood. A much simpler (and more rational) explanation was that the reek of sweat had seeped through his shirt and coat, that she could feel the tremor of his hands, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

"It's a little dark to run a differential."

"I thought you said you had x-ray vision."

"X-rays, not light rays. But since we're on the subject, the matching bra and panty set gets three thumbs up." Sliding a hand under her neck, House braced himself, wrapping his other arm around her and pulling her into a sitting position. He heard her breath catch close to his ear, almost a sob though she tried to swallow it. "Okay? Cuddy?"

"Mmm," she agreed, but her breath was stertorous and she leaned heavily against his shoulder before admitting, "Dizzy."

Still supporting her with one hand, he felt blindly for his phone with the other, but everything—his wallet, his cane, even his Vicodin—was gone, and he knew it would the be same with her things, all the way down to that damn book she had been pretending to read. He felt her slip against him, her head sliding slowly off his shoulder.

"Hey. Stay awake." When he spoke, she seemed to hear him, murmured something, but it was unintelligible and then all he could hear was the steady, jarring rhythm of his own blood pounding in his ears. "C'mon, Cuddy…."

His fingers slipped to her neck, found a pulse, quick and thready. With an unsettling but strangely euphoric inability to feel pain, House hoisted her up and began the slow, thankfully short, stumble from the small patch of woods to the park bench where they had sat not all that long ago. He was acutely aware of the hot liquid dripping down his hand where it was tucked under her legs, couldn't help but remember all the times he had teased her since he'd started helping her with the injections—and how she had vehemently denied his accusations every time but the last.

From here on out, everything was hazy and half-remembered, a complicated jigsaw puzzle with very few pieces left that seemed to fit together.

There was the bench; the path; the playground, eerie and empty in the dark; the thudding bass-line growing louder—not his heartbeat or hers, but the rhythm of angry rap music from small speakers. Then the sickly sweet smell of marijuana (unmistakable, nostalgic), and three shadows that transformed into teenagers, ready to take their cheap joints and flee, but one of them stopped, fixating on the gleam of blood, stoned out of his mind: _Christ, man—the fuck did you do to her?_

And then there was the long (interminable) wait for the sirens and flashing lights while he used her pulse to measure the seconds, not caring that his count was wildly off so long as time didn't stop altogether: one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three….

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**Okay... Things should get clearer as this moves along—and there's already more in the works if you want it. Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought. :)**


	2. Tuesday, 4:12 PM

**You guys are amazing! Thanks so much to everyone who read the first installment of this, especially: gidget89, Shikabane-Mai, SmilinStar, lhoma320, HotlipsPierce, Eleanor J., abc2, icarusabides, Taboo622, wrytingtyme, HigherThanSoulCanHope, mandy9578, CaptainTish, Critical Blues, Jenny, mo, cybercat08, RogueButterfly, Little Lunar Wolf, Calico Star, Flora Winter, arcadia1328, Schulyer Lola, gypsy71, HolidayArmadillo, J Lesley, Iamnotacommittee, Rachel, and - Lazy Days -.  
And before I forget, extra special thanks to gidget89, whose stories have cured many cases of writer's block. :)  
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**_Tuesday Nov. 13, 4:12 PM_**

She kept telling herself that it was the weather, though the forced repetition didn't seem to help it ring any more true. The fickle meteorologists kept predicting a record-breaking cold snap, but it was still strangely warm for November, the last rays of the setting sun casting an orange glow over the playground. The shrieked giggles and shouts had begun to die down as those who had taken advantage of the semi-mild weather trickled away with the dying heat and light of the sun. Only a few stragglers remained: a boy and his young mother, two girls and their five small charges, three teenagers who had staked a claim on the empty jungle gym, a man leaning against a tree across the way.

Cuddy had completely forgotten about the book that lay open on her lap until it suddenly snapped shut. Her cheek and arm brushed against something solid as she flinched—an arm that had somehow encircled her without her knowledge. As her heart leapt into her throat and lodged there, warm breath hissed in her ear. "Playing hooky?"

She relaxed automatically, should have at least put on an air of irritation, but she was too tired for even that to come. The bench shifted as House slid onto it beside her—too close for comfort but somehow right, as it always was between them—and she tried not to smile. "I'm allowed to take a lunch break."

"Alaskan Time," he mused, taking a long look at his watch. "Interesting choice."

"I was busy."

An understatement.

Between the almost endless meetings and pages to the clinic, the lecturer she'd had to introduce and the lecture she herself had prepared and given about ten minutes before it had begun, Cuddy had barely had five minutes to herself all day. The busyness and the constant throbbing in her temple had both added to and distracted her from the strange twinge in the pit of her stomach. Every thought seemed to rest there: the treatments and injections, the two pink lines in the first little window (then another, the blue plus sign in two more, the word itself, and, at length, the blood results: indisputable) and she had to consciously remember not to place her hand there.

She couldn't let herself be happy. Not yet.

House's eyes sizzled as they raked down her body—her cheek, her neck, lingering on her chest—though she did everything in her power to keep from looking at him, wondered for a moment if he knew just how intense his gaze was (if he would do anything to stop it if he did). The bench and the playground probably hadn't been one of her more brilliant ideas—a running theme—and another three seconds of studying her, and House would know that as well as she did.

A little girl must have been channeling Cuddy's bottled-up emotion, was throwing a terrific tantrum and clinging tearfully to the chains on a swing. Nothing so small and innocent-looking should be able to shriek so loudly.

"I can probably snag one for you," House said off-handedly, nodding towards the still-screaming girl, her cries fading as she was carried in the opposite direction. "What's your flavor? Chocolate with nuts? Vanilla and a cherry?... At least for the first thirteen years or so. After that, can't make any guaran—"

"I like ice cream!" a small boy chirped hopefully as his mother tried to drag him by.

House leaned down to the kid's level. It was a sweet image—the two of them practically nose-to-nose, the glint in House's eyes reflected, magnified in the boy's thick glasses. But then, as always, House opened his mouth. "_I_ like to eat nosy little boys. Yummy."

Helpless, the boy shot his mother an alarmed look, but she simply tugged him by the sleeve, waiting until she no doubt thought they were out of earshot, not counting on the shrillness of her voice to carry so clearly over the crisp autumn air: "That, Jacob, is exactly why we _don't_ talk to strangers. Ever. Do you…."

"That, Cuddy," House mimicked nearly perfectly but for the strong infusion of disdain, "is why lions eat their young."

"If you antagonized a lion like that, it would eat _you_."

"Don't worry." As he spoke, he reached out a hand and placed it on her stomach, patting gently, almost affectionately, and shooting her a sideways roguish grin. "I'll teach your spawn not to be annoying."

_It meant nothing_, she silently repeated, a new mantra—was just House being… House: playing on fortunate circumstances and her own emotions just as he would his piano, bending every note, every word and gesture, to his will. This was a man who probably shouldn't be left within spitting distance of _any_ child until well past the formative years, let alone be allowed to teach one anything.

Knowing all this, repeating it, still didn't keep her pulse from steadily quickening.

"In order for you to do that," Cuddy finally managed as he moved away, the spell broken, "you'd have to _actually_ not be annoying yourself."

She was glad the darkness had finally settled and she couldn't quite make out his knowing glance; but still there was that tone. "You're finally out of Egypt. Mazel tov."

Denial, perhaps. More like hesitancy churning with trepidation, fermenting with the stomach acid and fear—a mixture she had spent too many near-sleepless nights analyzing in the weeks and months after he had told her she wasn't fit to be a mother. They had continued her injections silently after that, neither of them mentioning it though the outburst had formed a sort of wall between them—full of chinks for quick glances and easily scalable, but there all the same.

"Did you come all the way out here just to irritate me?"

"Unless you wanna get stoned and make out." House jabbed his cane towards the jungle gym, the three teenagers draped lazily over it. "Another few minutes and we can totally score some cheap weed."

"I think one drug addiction is probably enough," she muttered as she felt him grope in his pocket, the gesture as familiar as the orange bottle he finally pulled out. "Case in point."

"Breath mint," he responded flippantly, tossing a pill into the air and catching it on his tongue, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallowed. "Haven't we had this conversation?"

Maybe if she _had _let him come in last night, she would have actually fallen back asleep: he had always felt so perfect, so right pressed against her, and memory was only a pale imitation. The thought startled her. Exhaustion must have been affecting her judgment more than she'd realized.

Cuddy shifted on the bench, tried to inch away from him. "Why are you here?"

"Sleeping Ugly needs a multiple subpial trans– "

"I told you not to call her that," she quickly admonished. "And absolutely not."

"You didn't let me finish," House sing-songed, typically, infuriatingly. He had been fidgeting but suddenly stilled, and she had a feeling that it had nothing at all to do with the seriousness of his patient's condition, and everything with the space that was now between them. It was only a few inches, shouldn't have been perceptible or mattered.

In that moment, there was nothing more dangerous than this silence, a Petri dish for unbridled emotion and possibility.

"You're not performing unnecessary brain surgery on a little girl."

"Hey, I'm with you. We skip all that and just sign the death certificate _now_, I can be home in time to watch that babe scientist solve a murder using a scratch on the stapes." He heaved a sigh, batting his cane back and forth between his palms, and whether or not he had somehow intentionally timed the beat with her pulse, the effect was still a little unsettling. "Course, the grandparents might have a problem with it, but they'll be pushing up daisies in a few years anyway."

"You're being overly dramatic."

"You're not being objective." House turned towards her then, almost accusatory but not surprised. And how he ended up pressed against her again without seeming to move was anybody's guess, but there he was, warm against her, a thousand contradictions at once.

"I let you do a brain biopsy last night," Cuddy responded finally, because one of them had to speak, and he was either oblivious to the tension or relishing in it. She knew House as many things, but oblivious was never one of them.

"And it worked."

"It told you nothing you didn't already know. You were just lucky it didn't do any harm."

A streetlight clicked on nearby, its bulb nearly burnt-out, a dull flickering orange that cast an eerie sheen across House's profile. He was grinning, and she realized her poor selection of an adjective half-a-second too late.

"No – I would've _gotten_ lucky if you'd've let me inside."

_That's what you think_, she wanted to say, or maybe, _We'll never know_ (with a coy smirk, that tilt of the chin, eyelashes fluttering—she could play his game just as well as he could when she wanted to). But the words somehow tripped themselves up on the way out of her mouth, lengthening, twisting, and suddenly serious. "If she has another seizure that won't respond to medication, you can talk to the grandparents about the transection. Until then…."

"Wait for some magic fairies to make her all better?" Even for him the tone was harsh, but she knew it was only frustration. He'd been on this case for days and time was running out.

"Find out what's wrong with her." It was much colder now, her soft voice crystallizing as it hit the air, amber clouds in the weak, sputtering light. "Besides the epilepsy."

In the silence that followed, her thoughts fluttered: she smoothed her skirt; he tapped his knee to the deep, bass-y rhythm that had started to vibrate the air. It would have been the perfect ending to a scene in a movie: the camera panning from her face to his. He would've nodded sadly and risen (maybe squeezed her arm, laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder), his back shrinking quickly as he hurried away down the path; he'd call her not long later, breathlessly spouting a diagnosis, a cure—everyone smiling, a bright, dazzling white.

But this was life (a stark contrast with its muted shadows, different shades of gray), and House, and none of it was ever that vivid or easy. He didn't move to acknowledge what she had said, couldn't run, never touched anyone unless through a protective layer of sarcasm or latex. But he would trudge through hell and high water to find that cure, even if it meant flouting her, the American Medical Association, and the Hippocratic Oath in one fell swoop.

She had known all this when she hired him, had known it long before. He always required an addendum, with everything, and it was her job to give it, though up to her discretion as to whether verbally or with little more than a glance. (How many thousands of conversations had they had where their eyes said more in an instant than pointless words ever could?)

But now it was dark, and Cuddy didn't trust her gaze to convey the right emotions. "And if I hear you've been in her room flashing the lights or done anything else to induce a seizure…."

"You won't," House promised, too quickly, using an index finger to trace a cross over his heart. "Hear about it," he added under his breath, and the way he was grinning at her, he'd meant for her to hear it.

Then he was standing and she wasn't, though he was waiting for her, even holding out a hand after a moment, the gesture so uncharacteristic of him that she could only stare. He retracted the hand quickly, shoving it deep into his coat pocket, as if by hiding it he could pretend he had never stooped so low as to actually offer help to another human being.

"Afraid of what people'll say if they see us walking back together?"

"Like you don't already have some story—"

He placed the tip of his cane on the toe of her shoe, not pressing down, just holding it there, waiting for a reaction. "Depends on whether you're up for the swings or the slide—either should allow for some interesting friction."

She knew she was in dangerous territory when she found herself actually considering these options—not in the sense that she would ever act on them, but a simple what if…. "Go back to your patient, House."

"You can't avoid me forever."

"I'm not avoiding you now. House. For once, just…." But he had already turned, without any further pestering, sarcasm, or innuendo (more atypical even than his offer to help her off the bench had been), and Cuddy could do nothing but frown at his retreating form.

**

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**_Tuesday Nov. 13, 4:29 PM_ **

Maybe she hadn't thought he'd noticed in the dark—though he'd seen everything else (her paleness, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she hesitated more than was normal or necessary). Maybe she hadn't even noticed herself, but she had draped a hand over her belly as she'd spoken to him, delicate fingers flexing protectively. It had stood for only an instant, but it was all he had needed. Anything he could say to her now would no longer be teasing.

House hadn't gone far when his phone rang, and he answered without bothering to look and see who it was. "Tell me she's seizing and the meds are crap."

"You don't need to sound so happy about it," Chase responded coolly.

"Awesome." He wheeled around, heading back towards Cuddy, the bench, that damn flickering streetlight. "Hold down the fort. I'll be back in ten."

"Wait. What do you want us to—"

Chase's voice was quashed with the push of a button, the phone quickly stowed in House's pocket, and he ignored it when it began to ring again. The park bench was empty, Cuddy nowhere in sight. The woman could boast all she wanted about her ability to outrun him, but tired as she had seemed and on those heels, there was no way in hell she could have completely disappeared down the path in thirty seconds.

It was an unsettling sensation, the prickling of each individual hair standing up on his arms and the back of his neck. There must have been something in the air—a strange breeze, a sudden chill. Fear was something to which he simply was immune.

"You know," he called out as he approached the bench, not quite sure what he planned to do once he got there, "I have a much better version of hide-and-seek we could be playing."

His only answer was the dull sound of his cane hitting against the wooden slats of the bench, the terrible shouldn't-even-be-called-music that the jungle gym hooligans had started blaring. But underneath there was something, and he zeroed in on what was barely a sound at all: a rustling, a muffled whimper (or maybe a trick of the ears—it wouldn't have been the first time). House rounded the bench, rust-colored leaves crackling beneath his feet and his cane as he penetrated the darker shadows in the trees behind it.

"Cuddy?"

His cane was suddenly gone, torn from his grip, and the unexpected pain in his head was tremendous. Someone shouted—or some_thing_, because the sound was feral, inhuman, but if nothing else the rawness in his throat was evidence that the noise had come from him.

There were bright sparks that fractured and multiplied, trailing tails like comets in atomic tangerine—a dark face, unrecognizable—then Cuddy's, shimmering in an afterimage as his eyelids were weighed down, heavy as anvils—the zing of pain (again, or maybe the same, just increasing), and then….

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**A little confusion's still a good thing, since I'm playing around with the timeline a bit, but if you're completely lost, let me know and I can try to make things a little clearer. :) Thanks again for reading! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.**


	3. Tuesday, 7:01 PM

**Thanks so much to everyone reading, especially: Shikabane-Mai, wrytingtyme, HolidayArmadillo, Iamnotacommittee, Crema De Estrellas, Schuyler Lola, gidget89, Samantha, gypsy71, lhoma320, HouseM.D.FanForever, Merlynnod, Critical Blues, Forsaken Goddess, RogueButterfly, mandy9578, seriousmelo, HotlipsPierce, icarusabides, Little Lunar Wolf, 7ala11, SmilinStar, Rachel, CaptainTish, and stroky. Really, I can't tell you guys how awesome all your reviews have been. :)**

**To prevent any more confusion (or try to... there's still more backstory coming, so hang in there): Chase, Cameron, and Foreman never left... or came back. However you want to spin it, they're still here. And kudos to those who picked up on the Bones reference. Tuesday is _such_ a great night for television.**

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_Tuesday Nov. 13, 7:01 PM_**

It was dark: all cool light and soft shadows, only what filtered in between the blinds—enough to see by, discern shapes and hints of colors, and right now, that was all he needed. House sat with his feet propped up on his desk, rolling a ball of rubber bands around and around his fingers, liking the rough irregularity of its surface, the acrid scent of rubber. He tried bouncing it against the floor, but it ricocheted wildly, hurt his already pounding head to lunge and catch it. For a second he saw stars, but blinked them away.

The blinds rustled, clanking as someone—no, three someones—strode through them and into the room. "How long have you been here?" Cameron's voice was shrill and disapproving, but House's only answer was to begin tossing the ball and catching it with one hand. "We called you _two-and-a-half hours_ ago."

"You said ten minutes," Chase added, quick to defend his girlfriend, and right about now Foreman would be rolling his eyes. "She's slipping into a coma."

The ball hit the palm of House's hand, thudding to the ground. He felt it, heard it, but somehow it still barely registered. He shot out of his seat, the movement seeming to trigger the lights: the sudden glare a harsh, unforgiving yellow. His hand flew up to shade his eyes, his borrowed cane clattering.

It was a moment his team seemed to have choreographed for themselves, while House was left to stumble awkwardly through the moves: Chase bent to retrieve the cane, Foreman stepped away from the light switch, and Cameron headed to the whiteboard. The light glinted off its surface, the marker squeaking softly: leth./sleep --- coma.

House had forgotten he had a patient.

"Seizure's stopped but the kidney failure…." Cameron trailed off, indignation leaving her features to make room for surprise, even that quickly melting to concern. "What happened to your face?"

"I could ask you the same question."

He didn't know whether to be annoyed that his team was so far out of the loop or glad that he didn't have to deal with their knowing glances, the question written on all their faces that even Foreman wouldn't have the guts to ask. House had seen the beginnings of it down in the ER. By tomorrow, a dozen different stories would be circulating about the Dean and the Diagnostician. Usually House was the last to dispel any rumors, the first to begin them. Most of them would be ridiculous enough to earn _General Hospital_ a Daytime Emmy, and those, of course, he would encourage. But any that that even orbited the truth struck a nerve (no, all of them).

"It looks like you were beaten up," Chase observed, peering curiously.

"It looks like your mother slept with her own brother about nine months before you were born, but I don't feel the need to go around pointing it out."

Foreman had apparently had enough of this, realized they were getting nowhere, or maybe thought it was all another game that he simply wasn't going to indulge. "If we don't find a way to stop the seizures—"

"_You're_ the neurologist," House interrupted, and though none of the words themselves were particularly biting, the force and tone behind them burned like acid.

Foreman was more or less unfazed, raised an eyebrow. "Multiple subpial transection. Like we agreed on before."

"We did _not_ agree," Cameron countered, arms folded. "She's only five and we have no proof that—"

"The younger the better. We don't do something now, she won't live to be six." Foreman turned his head to stare at House. "Did you get Cuddy's—"

"Why are you still here?" House snapped.

Chase frowned. "You haven't given us anything to do yet."

"What, you want me to hold your hands? You're big kids now. Go."

Foreman and Chase shared a look, but left the room, hands buried deep in their pockets. Cameron lingered in the doorway, took a step back towards him. "House. Are you okay?"

His eyes flicked up to hers, saw sympathy, worry, a simple need to understand. House was far beyond caring. "Save your pity for someone who can stand it," he growled at last. "And turn off the damned light."

**

* * *

_Monday Nov. 12, 11:57 PM_**

House drummed his knuckles with greater force against the glass, still keeping with the familiar, playful rhythm: shave and a haircut, two bits. He'd chanced the window instead of knocking on the door. It wasn't easy without the ketamine-induced numbness, and his leg was protesting loudly, but even the idea of catching a glimpse of her before she put on a bathrobe made all the pain worth it.

He was about to rap on the window again when the room suddenly filled with a warm light: a creamy gold like melted butter that filtered lazily through the filmy curtains. Cuddy had risen and clicked on a lamp, her silhouette moving with such languid deliberateness that she must have known that he was the one out there.

The thin curtains (or his foggy mind) were screwing with his depth perception, because she pulled the curtains back before he was ready, and it startled him to see her suddenly so close, so sharply, through the near-transparent lens of the window, moisture beading in the corners of the panes of glass. His fantasies of thin-strapped tank tops and flimsy nightgowns quickly dissolved. House knew he should have known better: it was coming on winter—she wore pants and long sleeves. But the shirt, at least, was a thin white cotton, and he thought he saw the shadow of an areola, the swell of a nipple, as she stretched to open the window.

And this was everything he had wanted and why life would have been so much better without the invention of the phone: face-to-face (or whatever-to-whatever) was definitely the way to go. His smile was so slow and lazy that even he could feel it spreading, saw the fleeting image of the Cheshire Cat's wide grin reflected in the window, toothy and taunting. But then the glass slid upward with a soft swish and Cuddy was before him, leaning on the window frame.

House watched her breath crystallize in the chilly air (and, more importantly, the rise and fall of her chest: hypnotic), the midnight silence almost too good to break. But one of them would have to speak eventually, and House always liked to have the upper hand. "Thought you could use a bedtime story."

Cuddy stared, amused and annoyed. With anyone else there would have been incredulity, but he knew that she wouldn't have expected anything less (or more) from him. "I was already asleep."

"_Was_ is the past tense, right? As in, _used to be and is no longer_?"

"It's midnight, House. It's cold—"

"Oh, I know," he said with a smirk, and though he was sure she rolled her eyes, all he saw was the swift puffing up of her chest (a sigh), her arms folding across it immediately. "Like that'll stop my x-ray vision."

"If you woke me up just to make inappropriate comments—"

"Business before pleasure," he interrupted, scolding lightly. "My boss'll kill me otherwise."

"Closer to becoming an actuality every second…."

It was hardly a threat when they both knew she'd never follow through with it. Still, House thought it best not to press his luck. "I need to take a look inside Sleeping Ugly's brain."

"Don't call her that. She's a little girl."

"Have you _seen_ this kid?" It was nothing personal, nothing in particular: he had yet to meet a child for which he'd found himself substituting words like _cute_ or _endearing_ for _annoying pain in the ass_.

Cuddy worried her bottom lip between her teeth, and there he had his answer. She wouldn't back up his callous claim, but she _had_ seen the girl and couldn't deny what he had said either. In that instant—the nervous, guilty gesture—House thought he saw a glimmer of a smaller, almost childlike Cuddy, but it never formed into an actual image. Cuddy as a child…a child of Cuddy's: same concept, just as inconceivable. House simply couldn't picture her—or her breasts—in miniature.

"Don't worry," he added finally, "I'm sure she'll grow up to have a great personality. Trick is, she's gotta grow up."

"You have no idea what's wrong with her." Not a question but an accusation—almost: it was softer somehow, but the intent still there. He had thought he'd played it cool enough that this fact might have escaped her.

"Takes all the fun out of the biopsy if you already have a diagnosis."

"You don't even have a theory. You're just taking a shot with your eyes closed and hoping you hit something."

"That's a pretty irresponsible metaphor," he tried to tease. "I'd at least make sure no one else was in the room."

She didn't laugh. Or even smile. It should have been too cold for crickets—maybe the sound of their chirping was only in his head, a comic exaggeration of the silence.

Either forgetting his earlier crack (and the distraction the movement would cause) or no longer caring, Cuddy unfolded her arms, seemed to need them to support herself on the windowsill. Her voice was suddenly soft as she pressed her forehead against the glass. "There's really no other way?"

"This is the version of the fairy-tale where nobody thinks to change death to sleep," he replied, almost gently. "Burn all the spinning wheels you want, Cuddy—it'll only take one."

She sighed, nodded. "Talk to the grandparents. Make sure they know what they're consenting to."

And his emotions were spinning: the thrill of victory continually knocking against something that felt very much like the agony of defeat. Though he would never understand her guilt, her sadness, he could still feel it breaking over him in waves, couldn't tell exactly when that had begun to taint his triumphs over her.

Their conversation was over: he had gotten what he'd come for, and Cuddy was moving to close the window. The test he had succeeded in finagling—another in an almost endless series, but at least he was (almost) always right—suddenly seemed much less important than it had thirty seconds ago.

"Wait." House grabbed her wrist, his fingers encircling it easily, felt thick and clumsy around her delicate bones, and he pretended to fumble for something in his pocket with his other hand. "I know I've got my all-access pass here somewhere."

She shook her arm, trying to tug it from him, but he held her fast, forcing her to respond. "That expired."

Ah, but it had existed: they could dance around the issue until their feet bled but neither would dare deny that.

"When?" he scoffed. "I don't remember there being an expiration date."

"A long time ago," Cuddy muttered, succeeding in prying her wrist from his grip, her fingers colder than they should have been. She tried again to shut the window, but the only way she'd manage it would be to snap both his radius and ulna—or, at the very least, dislocate his elbow. Her fingers brushed against his and for a moment she stopped trying to fight him and let them linger there, seemed on the verge of giving in. One look at him and she quickly pulled away, her palm smacking the window in frustration. "House."

He might have been able to overlook the softness in her tone, but the sudden fragility and vulnerability it uncovered were more difficult to ignore. The urge to crawl through the open window and support her was inexplicable and strange, suppressible, but just barely. He had to let go, take half a step back, force his eyes from her face to her chest (which didn't take much force at all, really). It was simple enough to offer her something to which she could easily respond, and he stuck his head further through the open window without another thought, peering up at her and waggling his eyebrows. "If we're gonna do this, I get to be on top."

"In your dreams." The tension slackened and Cuddy's relief was visible, her voice strong and smooth; House tried to reason that it was better this way, almost (but not quite) succeeded.

"It worked for Tom Hanks," he grumbled, making sure to pout. "But, fine. I don't mind going a couple rounds—"

"He was a twelve-year-old," Cuddy cut in, quick and stern, eyes narrowing. "And don't think you're getting the bottom either."

"Kinky. I like it."

"House." She leaned down, was suddenly serious and so, so close—it was dangerous, this proximity, and he knew that was all that kept her from using it during every single one of their arguments, because it rendered him speechless every time. "Go back to your patient."

Holding her gaze, he leaned back, clearing the window. He took the initiative when she didn't shut it immediately, cocking his head but his eyes still staring straight into hers. "So if the missionary position's not doing it for you anymore…."

And there was that grin: shyly flirtatious and undeniably sexy, the one she always seemed to know better than to use but was never able to stop. "Use your imagination." Cuddy's hands were on the window sash now, but she paused before sliding it down, smiling softly. "Goodnight, House."

**

* * *

_Tuesday Nov. 13, 7:53 PM_**

"House…."

It wasn't sleep. Not really. More like an off-switch, a complete loss of thought: nothingness. It was almost nice, comforting, to momentarily forget everything he'd eventually have to remember, but whoever was out there seemed hell-bent on interrupting it.

"House. She's been awake for—"

Pulling at thought, he took the first one that came to him and ran with it. "You're supposed to be cutting her brain open, not waking her up."

"I…don't think we're talking about the same person."

It was Wilson. He should've recognized the voice, though it was lower, quieter than normal. And that was the trigger. Everything came flooding back: the pain, the dark face… Cuddy.

"How is she?" House asked quietly, failing at nonchalance.

Wilson approached his desk, gave a strange half-nod that ended in a shrug. "She asked if you were okay," he answered (not really an answer at all), making eye contact for only a moment before looking away. "Go see her."

Quiet thought was risky. Blind instinct kicked in: anything to fill the heavy silence. "Did she pay you to come drag me down there?"

"Of course not."

"Doesn't have to be money," House continued, fiddling with his cane. "Sex… drugs… rock 'n' roll…."

"You're an ass." It was an accusation he'd definitely heard before, but not this new reason: "You should be down there."

He _had_ been down there, had stood in the doorway to the trauma room after Wilson had bandaged his head. The room had been more hushed than it normally might have been, the steady beeping of the EKG easily drowning out the low tones and whispers. Still, he had been on the verge of entering when a too-young doctor had wheeled in an ultrasound machine, lifting Cuddy's shirt to squirt the cold gel on her stomach.

House had turned away then, already knowing what they _wouldn't_ find there. Whatever he did or said to her, it would be the wrong thing, wouldn't come out as it should. He had a knack for that—usually used it to his advantage—but now….

"_You_ go sit by her bedside if you're so concerned—satisfy your nervous hand-wringing quota for the week."

Frustration evident, Wilson finally looked at him, seemed to be choosing his words carefully before finally taking a breath to speak. "_I'm_ not the one she wants there."

* * *

**So... a better chapter ending this time around? Not _really_ a cliffhanger at all (or at least comparatively). :) Hope you guys are still enjoying this. Thanks so much for reading--if you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	4. Tuesday, 9:30 PM

**As always, thanks so much to everyone reading, and especially those who reviewed: Shikabane-Mai, icarusabides, wrytingtyme, Taboo622, CaptainTish, abbeyannmd, y0bb, RogueButterfly, Merlynnod, Crema De Estrellas, gidget89, HolidayArmadillo, SmilinStar, HouseM.D.FanForever, mandy9578, Schuyler Lola, starkidtw, stroky, Rachel, Critical Blues, 7ala11, abc2, and Pogo KW.  
You guys left such _amazing_ reviews that my muse just took off, and this chapter kind of wrote itself**—**whether that's exactly a good thing or not, of course still remains to be seen...**

**And another kind of strange note: Pretend the dots on the whiteboard don't exist. I needed two columns but this site apparently has something against white space. Sorry about that.**

* * *

**_Tuesday Nov. 13, 9:30 PM_**

_Sleeping Ugly . . . . . . . . __4:30PM  
__EPILEPSY . . . . . . . . . . park, kids: pedophile/  
__leth./sleep --- coma . . . . sexual predator  
__hypoglycemia . . . . . . . . __trees, dark: premeditation?  
__kidney fail. . . . . . . . . . . .mugging: purse, book,  
__Neutropenia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .wallet, cane, phone  
__autoimmune? . . . . . . . . .__patient? clinic?  
__. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .revenge?--- motivation?  
__. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .FACE?_

House stood before the whiteboard, tossing the rubber band ball from one hand to the other. There were too many factors, too many question marks, and no tests to perform to rule-out any of them. Every once in awhile, his eye would catch on something on the other half of the board—renal failure, neutropenia, coma—and he knew he should be focusing his effort in that direction. And he would (for thirty seconds, two minutes, once nearly five), but it would only be a matter of time before that dark face would be taunting him and his attention would shift once again.

"…singing in the dead of niiiight…. Blackbird singing in the dead of niiiight…. Blackbird singing…."

The single, horribly off-key lyric had started softly and grown steadily in volume, went on and on without any change in pitch or to, its only accompaniment the not-at-all rhythmic scratching of a broom. Eventually, the shadowy face began to morph, growing wings and fluttering over the words on the whiteboard. No longer able to tune out the annoying repetition, House capped the marker and stormed towards the door, sweeping aside the blinds.

One of the night janitors was haphazardly making his way down the hallway with long, slow sweeps of his broom. House recognized the man immediately, his odd shuffling gait unmistakable—though House had informed him on numerous occasions (and with varying levels of insolence) that his pants were backwards, the janitor never seemed to find this enough of a problem to correct it.

"Just going out on a limb here," House began, his tone more than a few octaves from polite, "but I'm thinking there might be a few more words to that song."

"Nope." The janitor answered without looking up, bending to sweep a swirling cloud of dust bunnies into a dust pan.

"Want me to get Paul McCartney on the phone?"

"I can't be on the phone when I'm working." Apparently couldn't talk while he was working either, the effort seeming to break his concentration so that his hand shook, the dirt and dust flying from the dust pan and sending the janitor into a coughing fit that sounded far from healthy.

"I can't _work_ with you working," House almost shouted over the noise, nose and mouth hidden in his elbow to avoid the dust and germs. "See the problem here?"

"You don't like Blackbird. How 'bout Green Submarine."

"It's yellow. Always has been."

"That doesn't rhyme," the janitor pointed out simply. "Greeeeen submareeeene."

"How about the sounds of silence?" House didn't wait for a response, fighting his way back through the blinds.

"The Beatles didn't sing that."

"Wasn't talking about the song," he called over his shoulder, back at the whiteboard once again.

The blinds jangled as the janitor continued his sweeping right through them and into House's office, humming and ignoring the fact that it was carpeted. "You're not s'posed to be here," he observed conversationally.

"It's _my_ office." House tapped the marker against his lips as he stared at the black letters: patient, clinic, revenge. Who had he pissed off? Recently…. "And I _didn't_ invite you in."

The broom knocked against House's shoe, forcing the janitor to stop and look up, squinting as he leaned on the broom handle. "How'd the other guy look?"

"Look in the mirror in about five minutes," House responded, clenching his fist and taking a step backward in disgust.

"You gonna eat that?" The janitor was pointing at an opened bag of chips that House couldn't remember buying, much less eating, but the other man didn't wait for a response before reaching for the bag and flopping into a chair. He peered inside, frowning, and carefully folded over the top of the bag before furiously crushing its contents. Then, completely ignoring the suspicious, mossy stain that covered the entirety of his hand and arm nearly to the elbow, he poured the crumbs onto his palm and tipped them into his mouth.

House glanced quickly at the whiteboard, the array of symptoms and possibilities (that he was still nowhere near to figuring out), then back to the strange little man, who seemed to be focusing all of his effort into chewing his stale and pulverized snack as loudly as he could. Well, when life hands you a sidekick, even in the form of a weird night janitor….

"If somebody attacked you, would you say it was a personal thing?"

Hand jerking, spewing chip crumbs like volcano ash over a much wider area than should have been possible, the janitor cocked his head. "You gonna hit me?"

It actually wasn't as ridiculous a question as it at first sounded, given that House had to think a moment before answering. "Right now? No."

Oddly (stupidly), the janitor found nothing wrong with this response, nodding tightly and screwing up his face as if deep in thought. "Did he touch my broom?"

_Now_ it was steering towards ridiculous. "No."

"Big guy or little guy?"

"It matters?"

"Maybe I could take a little guy," came the matter-of-fact response. "With my broom."

Clearly, he had to take a different route. "What if he attacked your broom?"

The janitor's eyes widened, narrowing quickly, and he clutched his broom tightly. "What'd he look like?"

"It was dark. You didn't see him," House gripped his cane, wondering for a moment how strong these hospital-issued canes actually were. The janitor might have an unhealthy attachment to his broom, but House was still relatively confident in his ability to take him in cane-to-broom combat. It was almost a hypothesis worth testing.

"Then how'd he see me?"

"Not the point," House answered, rolling his eyes as the janitor screwed up his face in confusion. "Maybe he was following you, watching all along. Hiding in the…."

He stopped, stared at the whiteboard, forced himself to only look at the first half, his mind to focus, cling to the idea upon which he had stumbled. Drawing a thick line through _epilepsy_, he scrawled _seizures _in its place, examining the array of symptoms that followed, all fitting into place. He tossed the marker aside without replacing the cap and started across the room.

"_Now_ are you gonna hit me?"

House had walked straight past the janitor, completely forgotten he was still there. He only paused long enough to stick his head back through the doorway. "If you're still here when I get back—yeah."

None of this—solving the case, the janitor's fear and surprise nearly causing him to choke—was quite as satisfying as it should have been.

**

* * *

_Wednesday Nov. 14, 1:46 AM_**

The view through the glass was distorted, cut at intervals by the half-closed vertical blinds, useful for blocking out everything he'd rather avoid. He could see the soft rise and fall of Cuddy's chest: three seconds in, three seconds out, the rhythm having hardly varied for some time. At first House had told himself he would go in once he was sure she was asleep, had extended that to fifteen minutes after (just to be sure), then twenty, thirty….

And almost two hours later, the ache in his leg was starting to overpower the throbbing in his head, which even more than an extra dose of Vicodin hadn't been able to dull. He shuffled into her room as silently as he could, zeroing in on the chart at the foot of her bed, needing its aseptic sterility to prepare him for actually looking at her face: two cracked ribs, stress fracture of the distal radius, four sutures to close a gash on her forehead, contusions, abrasions, and spontaneous abortion (tacked on almost as a careless afterthought).

Returning the chart, he sank into the chair beside her bed, resting his chin on his cane and watching the steady blink of the chartreuse numbers on the monitor. He had completed one puzzle, but the pieces of the other were still scattered, the few he had nowhere near enough to create a clear picture.

The rustling of blankets coincided with a sigh—not surprising: he had half-expected she'd still be awake. "You threatened my nurse."

"She was coming in here every five minutes," House responded quickly, automatically on the defense. "I only _implied _that if she stepped foot in your room outside her normal rounds again, I _might_ make it my personal objective to sabotage her career. That's not so much a threat as—"

"Thank you."

And he didn't ask what she was thanking him for—peace from the nurse, sitting at her bedside, following her earlier in the day—it didn't matter. He realized then that she had been on to him, had known he'd been outside her room all along. She wouldn't ask him for an explanation (for anything: what had taken him so long to come down here, to come inside). That didn't matter either. This, right now, was enough.

"Beta-ketothiolase deficiency," he said suddenly, as if this had been the sole purpose of his visit (and though they both knew so much better).

"The girl?"

He nodded, tapping his cane against her bed. "It was never epilepsy. The seizures were—"

"Ketoacidotic episodes. That's incredibly rare."

"Late onset, but it fits. She's responding to treatment." House stilled and looked up, offering Cuddy a small grin. "And we didn't cut out any of her brain."

He must have skipped a step because it was all over too quickly: his patient discussed, dismissed, and it was time to move on. Cuddy returned his smile—almost. The corner of her lip twitched, the intent there, but the gesture unable to carry through.

"Listen. Cuddy…." The last syllable of her name stretched, and he had no idea where the hell he planned to go from there. Someone, somewhere had to have created a map for this, or a damned decoding device, and if he could only get his hands on a copy, whatever it was….

But suddenly, it no longer mattered. The night nurse either had incredibly aggravating radar or was some kind of cyborg, designed to prevent any meaningful human relationships from developing, whether through actual conversation or silence. Her footsteps were fast approaching, shrill in the sleep-silenced hallway. Whatever her intent, accidental or otherwise, the intrusion wasn't welcome.

"I wasn't kidding," House called loudly, turning to the door just as the nurse appeared there. He was so sure that his look would kill that it almost surprised when the nurse didn't immediately keel over.

"It's time for my rounds," the nurse coolly answered, one hand on her hip.

"Who wants a nurse when they can have a _real_ doctor?"

"Is the doctor _you_?"

Oh, there was a fantastic retort for that (of course, he had one for almost anything), but he felt a hand cover his own where it rested on top of his cane, the warm pressure making him immediately forget what he had been about to say, and let Cuddy get in a few word edgewise. "Dr. House can—"

"Thanks for playing," House interrupted triumphantly. Cuddy had taken her hand off his, and this alone was reason enough to poke the nurse towards the door with his cane (though he could have defended himself with at least six others if asked).

"How do you know that sentence is going to end in your favor?" the nurse asked, swatting viciously at his cane. "Dr. House can leave. Dr. House can come back later. Dr. House can shove that cane of his up his ass," she added. "All possibilities."

"House."

This was Cuddy, quick and almost sharp. Still torn between amusement and annoyance, he turned towards her, immediately chastened when he was met by her bruised face and worn expression, the dark circles under her eyes.

"Sorry," Cuddy softly continued, but she was looking at the nurse, who shot House a look and left the room with a huff.

"Can we shift her to days in the clinic?"

"Wouldn't be fair to the other clinic nurses. One version of you is all they can take at a time." Cuddy frowned as he stood, trying not to wince at the sudden pang in his thigh. "You don't have to do this. I'm—"

"Overdue for a checkup." He had found a stethoscope and stood over her, hands trembling but he quickly steadied them. Though he tried to warm the metal of the chestpiece against his hands before slipping it under her hospital gown, she still gasped when it made contact. "That hurt?"

"No."

"Liar." Though so was he—it hadn't been a sound of pain but a response to the unexpected heat of his fingers against her bare skin.

He listened to her heartbeat, her breathing, checked her stitches, and then he could ignore it no longer, lifted the blanket off her. "Any more bleeding?" he asked quietly, a hand pressing on her stomach. "Cramping?"

She shook her head, looked at him for only a second before turning away. It was the second time he had seen that look in her eyes—grief, disappointment, loss—each emotion intensified now without the fog of Vicodin withdrawal. He had known when she had been pregnant the first time (and then, just as suddenly, not). But she had never told him and he had had other things on his mind (the beauty of opiates, the idiocy of the police force) and so it had passed between them—like so many other things—unspoken but not unnoticed.

He pulled the blanket back over her, and there must've been something in the way his hand slowed, almost lingering as he let it go, because Cuddy's chin tipped back up to meet his gaze.

"Gonna need the full frontal for the next part of this exam," House murmured.

"They haven't given me enough painkillers for that."

"Easily remedied." He was already reaching into a drawer by her bed, finding a small bottle and a syringe and pulling them both out.

"You're not serious.: She fidgeted, almost in alarm, tried to put on a stern face. "House."

"Diazepam," he answered, filling the syringe carefully with the sedative and watching her relax out of the corner of his eye. "You need to sleep."

"So do you."

"Sleep is for the weak." Tearing open an antiseptic wipe with his teeth, he swabbed at her arm, the gesture now a familiar one between them, and though the medication, circumstances, even the injection site, couldn't have been more different, the sweetly strange intimacy wasn't lost. "And the sedated."

"Go home, House," she said, but guiltily, gently, and for once it wasn't a command.

He slowly sunk the needle into Cuddy's arm, eyes flicking to hers half in apology as she hissed with the momentary pain. "What makes you think I'll take orders from you?" And of course, he couldn't help but add, "In bed."

She didn't respond—not really—though he swore he heard a soft _past precedent_ and knew he hadn't been the one to say it (aloud). There was the soft rustle and thud of the syringe hitting the bottom of the disposal bin. "Only way you'd get me to stay here," House continued finally, "is if you paid me overtime."

"You wish. And this doesn't count as part of your clinic hours either."

House fingered the edge of the bed-sheet, finding and snapping a loose thread, the quick motion allowing his fingers to brush against her arm under the sheets. He heard her sigh, watched her eyelids grow heavy, the medication (mercifully) working quickly, calming her enough to allow exhaustion to lead her to sleep. "Cuddy?"

"Hmm?"

Her eyes were closed, her breaths deepening—the emotion of the day alone would have been enough to exhaust anyone. "Nothing. Never mind."

"Go home…" she repeated, though half-asleep it sounded like something out of a dream.

"Heading out the door right now," he answered, taking a step back, waiting until she had drifted off before dropping once again into the chair beside her bed.

* * *

**Again, thanks so much for reading! I really can't stress enough how awesome you guys are. As always, I'd love to hear what you** **thought—excellent food for my muse. :)**


	5. Wednesday, 6:21 PM

**Happy Halloween, all! Thanks to everyone still reading, especially: Shikabane-Mai, HotlipsPierce, CaptainTish, wrytingtyme, seriousm, nomad1328, gidget89, -Lazy Days-, RogueButterfly, Schuyler Lola, mandy9578, Tarica, HouseM.D.FanForever, The Madhatter 2, Pogo KW, Iamnotacommittee, lhoma320, Critical Blues, HolidayArmadillo, Merlynnod, SmilinStar, 7ala11, and mo. You guys are fantastic!**

* * *

_**Wednesday, Nov. 14, 6:21 PM**_

"You know, I can stick around for awhile. If you want. We can… watch a movie, or just hang out, or…." Wilson was standing in her doorway, hands in his pockets and refusing to make eye contact—the very picture of awkwardness (and nearly all of the few dates she had had in high school—the similarities so striking that she almost found herself wondering if she would have to kiss him, if he'd try to get away with slipping some tongue, or even know how). Finally looking up from his shoes, Wilson took a deep breath, blurting quickly, "I can make you dinner. Anything you want."

His puppy dog eagerness to please was so endearing that Cuddy almost hated to disappoint him. He had been the picture of a perfect gentleman: had insisted upon giving her a ride, pulled his car around to the hospital entrance, held every door, and walked her to her doorstep. Honestly, it was what silly girlhood dreams were made of (before experience quickly lowers Disney's false expectations), everything she had ever wanted—so why did she feel so suddenly smothered?

"Really, Wilson. I'll be fine."

"All right," he answered, but he was eyeing her suspiciously, and she knew that she was gripping the doorframe a little too tightly in her effort to remain standing. "Tea. At least let me make you some tea."

Cuddy acquiesced, only because she had lied through her teeth at the hospital, had insisted that she felt so much better that staying another night would only drain hospital resources. Stepping back to let him in, she pointed towards the kitchen, letting Wilson head in that direction as she continued on to her bedroom. She changed out of the clothes she had found in the closet in her office, the effort to take them off and replace them with something comfortable slow and painful, and she had to bite her lip against crying.

The teapot started to whistle shrilly, covering the soft sound of her footsteps as she padded down the hallway. She leaned in the doorway, watching Wilson putter around in her kitchen. He seemed to have found the mugs and teabags easily enough, had picked out something with chamomile and steeped it in the hot water, but now he seemed to stand at a loss, and she realized he had no idea how she liked her tea. Cuddy took a breath, about to help him, but it must have taken longer than she'd thought, because he was already stirring in a heaping spoonful of sugar and turning. Wilson startled when he saw her standing there, some of the tea spilling out onto his hand, and he bit back a yelp where House would have cursed loudly and accused her of turning the tea against him.

"Sorry," he muttered, holding the mug aloft and bending to mop up the spill, neatly placing the dishtowel back on the handle of her oven door.

When he approached her, he reached out a hand. It faltered, and she knew he almost stopped the gesture, but then his palm was on her back and he was leading her towards the couch. Cuddy didn't try to pretend that the support was unnecessary, sank onto the sofa gratefully, wrapping herself in an afghan and taking the steaming mug he handed her.

"Thank you." She hoped her voice held and he would catch the note of finality.

"I don't mind—"

"I can take care of myself," she interrupted gently—what she didn't add was that she'd done it for years, almost didn't know anything else now.

He nodded, started to step away. "Cuddy. If you need anything…."

"I know. And thanks, Wilson." She sipped her too-sweet tea, carefully trying not to cringe, to make it seem as if everything—the darkness, being alone, the tea—was okay.

Wilson was walking slowly towards the front door, paused only to mumble a goodnight over his shoulder. She heard the lock turn, his footsteps descend the porch steps, the slamming of a car door.

And then she was alone—which was what she had been striving or all day, feigning sleep while dozens of her staff stopped by to say hello (or, for the most part, just to confirm rumors, win or lose bets). As with most things, it wasn't until she had finally achieved this (lonely) silence that she realized it wasn't what she had wanted at all.

The clock ticked away the seconds, slowly, and her hand had found its way to her stomach (failure, again). She knew she had to force her thoughts in some direction before they took on one of their own (in shapes and sizes and colors that shouldn't have existed), and while House may not have been a safe choice for a thousand other things, as a distraction he was fantastic—whether a welcome one or not.

In her room the night before he had been… himself, of course, bitterly sarcastic, but almost sweet, in his own way. And she wouldn't have wanted it any other. She thought she had seen him at her bedside when she'd half-woken in the night, but whether he had been there or it was only a vision, he had been gone by morning. What else had she expected? Although the question had tempted her, nearly slid off the tip of her tongue—she hadn't asked him to stay.

It wasn't long before the ticking of the clock grew too loud, and it didn't take much of a leap for her racing mind to transform it into footsteps, rushed and rustling in the leaves. She could feel the throbbing on her arm where the fingers had curled so tightly, vice-like, and the rancid taste of those black-gloved hand that had clamped over her mouth.

The sudden banging seemed to fit so naturally with her hijacked thoughts that it took her a moment to realize that it was an actual noise and not something remembered. In that instant, her blood turned to ice, her hands gripping her now-cold mug so tightly that her knuckles were white. The banging continued, louder, more urgent, and she had time enough to wonder how long she had been alone, why the hell she had let Wilson leave, before fear descended: heavy, cold, and damp.

_**

* * *

Tuesday, Nov. 13, 4:49 PM**_

"Fuck."

The harshness of the sound jolted her from something deeper than sleep, triggering a spiral of memory that seemed dredged up straight from some childhood nightmare—clawing hands, a dark face, the inability to scream. And the only thing out of all of it that made any sense was the sudden, crushing impulse to run. She tried to pick herself up but was held fast, pressed into the ground.

There was someone on top of her: she felt breathing and a heartbeat and a hand on her hip. The intensity of the surge of panic that welled within her was almost more terrifying than what had brought it about. One of her arms was pinned, the other flaring with a pain like liquid fire when she tried to move it. There was nothing to do but wait, trembling, for what would happen next.

A thousand scenarios fast-forwarded through her mind, but none of them even came close to this. The hand that pressed against her tightened, and it was strange how familiar and reassuring the gesture was.

Realization dawned slowly—a series of grainy time-lapsed photographs from so long ago that they were starting to fade along the edges. This was The Past—always capitalized and never spoken of, though in a way it was always continuing. Maybe she hadn't woken at all, and this was her subconscious pushing the nightmare into one of her recurring dreams. Because there was his hand—even if she had to feel the heat through layers, not with the sizzle of skin on skin—but wherever this was, it wasn't her dorm room, or his old apartment, or even his damned roommate's bed.

Cuddy tried to say his name but the word wouldn't come despite the fact her mouth formed it, and she had to gasp for breath, force the air out of her lungs. "House?"

It was little more than a whisper but he'd heard it, his hand suddenly possessive, quivering with pent-up anger. She could see him only as a silhouette against the dim backdrop of a far-off flickering streetlight, but there could be no mistaking the feel of him, his profile. He reached out, his hand shaking though he was visibly fighting to steady it. His fingertips were warm, soft against her jaw—he touched her as if for the first time (awe, tenderness, almost a fairy tale), and she tried to concentrate on that, distract herself from the specks that had stated to swirl out of the corners of her eyes, the urge to surrender to lightheadedness.

"When I said I wanted you on your back," House finally mumbled, gingerly lifting himself off her, "this wasn't what I had in mind."

"Shut up, House." She had tried for something like normality and was glad when it sprung to her lips so quickly. It would take more than this (whatever it was) to change what had grown between them.

Though her eyes were open, it was only when she felt his breath on her cheek that she realized how close he had suddenly become. If she hadn't already felt faint, this might have been enough to bring the sensation about. The last time he had been this close and she hadn't moved away….

House was calling her name, the tone almost broken and urgent. She felt him squeeze her arm, and it was gentle, but still the pressure seemed to have broken something inside her. "Sorry," he quickly muttered.

It was a word she couldn't remember ever hearing him say without teasing, and she bit her lip at what that implied. "It must look pretty bad to make you apologize for something."

"You'll be fine," he snapped, but there was something else there—almost fear (and from House that was frightening in itself). "Head wounds always—"

"You're lying," she interrupted softly. "You don't know that."

The new tilt of his head (almost guilty, but that was _her_ flaw, not his) let her see through the wavering darkness and into his eyes—a deep, stormy blue: almost an emotion unto itself. He caught her watching him, quickly looked away. "It's a little dark to run a differential."

"I thought you said you had x-ray vision." If this was going to work—them pretending that nothing was wrong—then she was going to have to try to play along.

"X-rays, not light rays. But since we're on the subject…."

House was still talking, but either he had inexplicably switches languages or it was becoming harder and harder for her to process simple thought. She felt his hand slide underneath her, his palm hot on the back of her neck, and she knew his other arm was wrapping around her but everything was suddenly coruscating, bright sparks on a midnight background, and she couldn't take a breath.

"Okay?" His hands on her were so, so gentle, and that was (eventually) what grounded her, let sound and sight through though both were blurred. "Cuddy?"

"Mmm," she sighed in agreement, but, oh, what a lie, and she unintentionally contradicted it almost immediately, slumping against him as the world spun crazily around her. "Dizzy."

One of his hands left her, and he was going—or she was slipping, falling away from him—and before now, she never would have admitted to needing him for anything but his (brilliant) skills as a doctor. Everything was compressing, congealing, shifting in and out of focus, and all she could feel was the pain.

"Hey." He was still there but sounded tinny and distant. "Stay awake."

"House," she tried to mumble, wanted to grab onto him and never let go, but couldn't seem to relay that message to her hands. "Don't go."

_**

* * *

Wednesday, Nov. 14, 6:35 PM**_

It was only the door—yet knowing that (and that anyone who meant any harm certainly wouldn't bother with the courtesy of knocking) still didn't slow her pounding heart. Now the doorbell was ringing, as if whoever was there had only just realized its existence, and Cuddy cringed at the sound, painful and grating. Rising slowly, she forced herself to the entryway, peering cautiously through the peephole before unlocking the door and pulling it open with a sigh.

"Listen. I know…." Wilson trailed off as she rested her head on her hand, elbow on the doorframe, and she knew that if she were looking at him, he would've been the picture of remorse. "I scared you. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm fine," Cuddy murmured, must have been paler even than when he'd last left her. She focused on the floor as she tried to keep her breaths slow but shallow, the pain in her chest catching up with her.

"I know you said you were okay," he repeated tentatively. "And House can be—"

"Might want to stop and think before you finish that sentence," a familiar voice called, and how House had arrived without either of them seeing him was a mystery, but there he was, already limping up onto her porch. "Want me to turn around so you can at least insult me behind my back?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Wilson asked, anger there but mixed with concern, a familiar tone in this twisted (somehow perfect) friendship. "I stopped by your—"

House, of course, ignored his question, interrupted him. "Thought we worked out a schedule so nothing awkward like this would happen," he accused, jabbing at Wilson before turning to her. "You up for a threesome?"

Looking up, Cuddy met his gaze and saw into the sky on a summer afternoon: vast, limitless, crystal-clear but for the rainclouds on the horizon—the intense azure of his usual teasing just beginning to darken with the shade of genuine concern. And this, she realized, was what it was to see into his eyes without his usual mask—sarcasm or surliness or whatever else best fit his mood or purpose. The effect was startling, almost draining, and if she had to turn away or risk falling.

"Not tonight," she answered, leaving the door open and heading back to the couch. "I'll let you two fight it out."

She didn't hear a word from House behind her, but he must have opened his mouth, because Wilson's voice, though low, rang clear. "Don't—I'm going."

The door clicked shut, was locked, and House was shuffling into the living room. "I'm stuck with you," he grumbled, sighing loudly as he slid onto the couch beside her, reaching forward to grab her tea mug off the coffee table. "Paper beats rock."

She knew she should've told him that he didn't need to stay—let him exercise his with and sarcasm, bite back something about her looking in no position to boss him around, or ask what she expected to do to make him leave. But then he was chuckling lightly, had taken a swallow of her tea. "Don't tell me you let Wilson think you like it like this. You know he's going to suck up to you with sugar-loaded drinks all the time now."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy setting him straight."

"Well, yeah, but not until it goes on long enough for him to embarrass himself." He pulled lightly at the afghan that she held tightly around her. "You gonna hog that whole blanket? Not all of us have the necessary body fat to survive in the Ice Queen's lair."

"There's another behind you," she mumbled, lacking even the effort to glare. And she hadn't realized that her head had fallen against his arm until she felt him move, as slowly and carefully as possible, snagging the blanket and spreading it over the both of them.

"Your feet are freezing," he explained quickly, though they were nowhere near touching him.

As her eyes grew heavy, she felt his hand come to rest beside hers on the blanket, a gentle brush, barely any contact. But from House, it was everything—apology, admittance, declaration, an entire conversation, and maybe even….

**

* * *

Hey, poor Cuddy needed some sleep, right? And there are still a couple more chapters to go.  
Thanks so much for reading, and please review if you have a chance--I love hearing from you guys!**


	6. Tuesday, 4:29 PM

**Oh, this chapter fought with me, so I'm apologizing in advance on its behalf. **

**Thanks so much to everyone who's still sticking with this crazy timeline, all the new readers, and especially: anon, wrytingtyme, Lunatic878, -Lazy Days-, lhoma320, Shikabane-Mai, Critical Blues, y0bb, somethingsdont, CaptainTish, mo, RogueButterfly, gidget89, Schulyer Lola, 7ala11, A. Heiden, mandy9578, Pogo KW, stroky, HouseM.D.FanForever, HolidayArmadillo, The Madhatter2, SmilinStar, Huddytilidie, jadedangel234, Merlynnodd, and Beetroot for the phenomenal reviews!**

* * *

**Tuesday, Nov.13, 4:29 PM**

It had been much too easy, getting him to walk away. She hadn't had to give in to his demands, find some middle ground (tipped in his favor, inevitably—even if it didn't seem that way at first), or even finish her sentence. And it could only mean that he was up to something, would be back in three minutes with some trick up his sleeve: a better excuse, a more ludicrous alternative, something he knew she wouldn't be able to say no to. Or maybe he would just ignore her entirely. It wouldn't be the first time—probably not the last either, the way he seemed to be slipping further and further from her control lately. She was losing her touch—or he was getting better—either way, it was disconcerting.

She sighed, knowing she had to head back and there had been no reason that she shouldn't have gone with him—unless she counted the fact that she longed to far too much for any more closeness between them to have been wise or safe. She blamed it on hormones, the fact that House seemed to be able to crawl under her skin so easily lately and remain there longer—not because there was any truth to it, but because she liked to think that she could generally put up a better resistance to his peculiar brand of charm.

It was always a dangerous game that they played, this give and take (mostly one-sided, in either direction): flirtation, both blatant and hidden in sarcasm, arguments so heated, leaving her so tightly wound that on some days she could feel the steady throb of anger (no, desire) increasing with each echoing step she took into her empty house. And her own fingers could soothe the ache for the moment (at night, against the silky coolness of the sheets; the hot steam of the shower in the mornings). But it was cold comfort—never anywhere near enough.

Worse was that he somehow seemed to know—or her mind twisted it so that it was as if he did. He always had some backhanded comment at the ready, that gleam in his eye, and just because everything seemed to oddly coincide (_Thought of you in the shower_, he had simpered once, teasing, just hours after she had thought of him) didn't mean anything, didn't mean he knew.

Rationalizations, all of it—weak and crumbling—and she should be made of stronger stuff than this, or at the very least have learned enough about logic to find some line of reasoning that could hold up against him.

_Damn him_, she thought, and her hand was on her stomach again, an effort to soothe the strange fluttering still there, and she didn't know how long it had been there, but realized that that he had known. And for him to know and not say anything….

When Cuddy felt something grip her arm, it was so natural that it would be him, that even when the press of the fingers didn't feel like it should have, she didn't for a moment think anything otherwise. She started to turn, his name already halfway past her lips, when she felt the hand move, black-gloved fingers clamping over her mouth. House was famous for blocking her, sneaking up behind her—almost but not quite touching, though with the electricity that hummed in the space between them, they might as well have.

But this was too much—not House at all. As rough as his demeanor and words could be, his hands, the few times they ever risked touching her anymore, were still always surprisingly gentle.

Almost instantly, something cold and hard kissed the skin at her throat: the blade of a knife—not quite at her jugular, she had time to think, but close enough to do the necessary harm. Fear caught up quickly—dull and quiet at first, but suddenly, screamingly urgent—and there was no choice but to obey the gruff voice that grunted in her ear, the breath hot and rank as it washed over her face: the pungency of rotten meat churning with vodka.

The words were indecipherable, but their intent was clear. So she was on her feet, not so much her own doing as the arms wrenching her neck, the knee jabbing into her back that forced her into the trees. She tried to fight, to call out, to look at whoever was behind her, but everything was happening much too fast, and the moment she started to struggle, her body was slamming against the rough bark of a tree—her arm and chest and stomach screaming in pain. Rushed back again, forward—and it was her head, this time, crashing against something solid and unforgiving.

Everything was half-dark, sputtering, and she felt the hands rip at her jacket, then leave her—thought she heard someone else cry out, but it could very well have been her own voice, even if seemed to be calling her name. She was plummeting, falling to the ground—which she thought she felt, but must have passed through, because the heady sensation of plunging into an indigo abyss seemed to go on and on….

* * *

**Thursday, Nov. 15, 12:12 AM**

Her eyes snapped open halfway through a gasp that was already pealing off into a keening, strangled sob. She was alone, shaking, and it was with fear and hurting and cold, her skin clammy, drenched in an icy sweat. At least that's what she thought it was—there could have been blood (there was pain, more than enough of it) and she didn't trust her eyes. She wanted, more than anything, to curl into a ball and shrink, just for a moment, to where no one and nothing could find her—the fetal position strangely comforting, though it did little good. But she was thirty-five years and two degrees past that sort of reaction, and calmness was what she needed, as unattainable as it seemed in this instant.

A deep breath. Two. Shaky, but they held, and the oxygen was helping even if the effort to get it seemed to stab at her chest.

Her mind clicked, slowly, one thought at a time. These were sheets, what she was fighting against, and a blanket, nearly balled up and kicked off the bed. And she couldn't remember how she had gotten from the park to her bed, though she must've gone straight from one to the other, because it was all so vivid: the pain still lingering, the fear trickling with the drops of sweat down her back.

"Cuddy," a voice called, softly but almost with an urgency, as if this weren't the first time it had said her name. Light spilled into the room, a shadow springing out of it, tall and looming. "Lisa."

Relief was heavy, but soft and warm, and she was able to hold up under its weight. She took a deep breath, though it hurt, let the pieces begin to fall into place, slowly: some razor-sharp and jagged, crashing (it was real, her dream, or had been—there could be no denying that), but the last few sweet and yielding. There was Wilson, eager to do whatever he could to help; House, soothing her to sleep, twice now, and their conversation from earlier was suddenly clear as glass, but without the sharp edges, unfolding as if it were happening right before her eyes.

_She had dozed against his arm on the couch, every once in awhile half-waking as she had moved, or he had—any motions had been slight but just enough to spark the pain. "This is the part," he had finally whispered, his lips moving against her hair, "where I lure you into bed."_

"_House…" she had mumbled against his shoulder, the sound muffled, and she'd realized that if it were going to continue into something even remotely resembling a protest, it wasn't going to be that _they_ shouldn't, but that right now, _she_, physically…._

"_Relax." And his hands had been on her waist, pulling her up, and he had been solid against her, warm and reassuring. "If I were going to have my wicked way with you, I wouldn't be giving you these. I don't wanna have to do _all_ the work."_

_She hadn't known what he'd been talking about, but then there had been two pills in her palm, her cold tea mug pressed into her other hand. "Painkillers," House had explained. "It's been awhile since you've taken any. Bottoms up."_

_And how he had known that, where he had gotten these, or even what exactly they were…._

"Cuddy?"

And House was closer now, a hand on her shoulder, the pressure so light it was as if he were afraid to break her (a ridiculous thought, but somehow it fit). He kept his hand on her until she finally turned, tipping her chin up to look at him, and had she known that was to be the trigger to end the contact between them, she might've waited before moving—just awhile longer.

But in his eyes there was something worth turning towards, a blue so deep it edged on violet, a tenderness she had never seen him show towards anyone in all the years she had known them.

_I'm fine_, she should have said, ever independent—not needing anyone, least of all him (or a knight in shining armor that simply did not exist). And he would've answered, _Like hell_, or probably something much more clever. Instead, for once, and maybe it was being so close to him and to panic, she said what she meant, forgetting to hide a meaning they would both understand anyway, no matter where it hid in the letters of insignificant words.

"You're still here." It sounded much too relieved, even to her own ears, and she tried to edge the end of the simple sentence into sarcastic surprise, annoyance even, but once it had been spoken, it was too late to turn back.

"That's what you think," he quickly replied, and she hated that he'd instantly secured the tone for which she had been trying, circling them back to quick glances and small touches (if they were daring) that meant more than any of their actual words. "This is only a mirage."

And she knew he was teasing, but her heart was still pounding wildly and she reached out to touch him all the same, his skin warm against her fingertips, and she half-sighed when he didn't shimmer and dissolve at her touch.

"Mirages don't talk," she answered quietly, because speech was the safest idea she latched onto, got the point across without the frenzied relief (permanence, not-aloneness) that tactility and solidity implied.

"A fantasy then. Yours—and you know it." It was never what he said, always how he said it: the different levels of teasing, the way he looked at her. And there had been a gentleness there, an attempt at providing comfort—he would break it in a minute, always did, but for now….

He caught her wrist where she still held him, his fingers pressing on her pulse, brow furrowing at the quickness still there. "That dream where you've only got A-cups would probably give half the Board a heart attack. Hospital funding would go down the toilet."

She had time enough to roll her eyes at him, heard him almost chuckle, and then he was holding a syringe aloft, must've had it the entire time and she just hadn't noticed. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned, but there had to have been something else in her expression, because he sounded nearly ready to apologize when he spoke. "It'll help you get back to sleep."

"No." The force behind it surprised her, though House looked almost amused. And she knew she probably looked the picture of the petulant child, but still didn't care. The drug-filled sleep of last night had been too forced and heavy—what she had needed then, but now…. Her painkillers were enough already, and his heartbeat would be better if he'd only stay where he was (or just come closer).

He raised an eyebrow, the needle lowering an inch. "Who's the doctor here?"

Cuddy could snap back to that, ring the bell for another round of bickering, but what would be the point? When she didn't answer, House set to watching her, with such intent that she had to look away, found herself pulling the sheets tighter around her in an futile attempt to fight the sensation of exposure. Finally, she saw him nod solemnly out of the corner of her eye, place the syringe within sight on the bedside table. "I reserve the right to overrule you."

"When _haven't_ you?" she asked automatically, exhaustion stealing over her so quickly and completely that it took her by surprise.

"Move," House grunted, jerking his head towards her. She didn't have time to question him, because he had already propped up his cane and was sitting beside her. Lifting his leg and rubbing his thigh with a frown, he grabbed at her twisted covers and pulled them halfway over him.

"So…" he started, interrupted by the crack of his head against wood as he leaned back too quickly against her headboard. "Jeez. You've even trained your furniture to argue with me. How many men have actually _survived_ the night in this bed?"

House was twisting, pretending to inspect her headboard for notches, but she allowed it. Because it was a strange and beautiful thing, this closeness, and their teasing really was as much a part of it as anything. "Including you?"

"That wasn't _this_ bed," he pointed out matter-of-factly, turning and pounding her pillow before sliding down and flopping back onto it, arms folded behind his head.

_Or the couch,_ Cuddy felt the sudden urge to add, suppressed it only because she was still curled around herself, her stomach in knots, and here he was in her bed (even if it wasn't the same one), nostalgic and too-perfect, like some scene out of an old movie. She could feel his eyes on her, might as well have mentioned their last… (lapse in judgment was what she had decided to call it)… because she knew he was thinking it, too.

"What, do we need a chastity sheet? Little late for that, but if you want to pretend you haven't been around the block, I can play along." His hand was on her shoulder, almost caressing as it tugged her downwards. "Were you a plaid skirt kinda girl or did you go more for those tight pants? Works for me, either way."

And then she was lying next to him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and the two of them _didn't_ clash almost every second that they spent together. She had followed the force of his pulling her, had ended up flush against him—could feel him breathe, the involuntary spasms of his muscles as he tried too hard not to move them—but if he wasn't going to say anything, she wouldn't either.

The silence stretched longer than it ever had with the two of them—at least as far as she could remember. But it was as comfortable as his warmth beside her, the sound of his breathing echoing in the dark. Cuddy was relaxed but still nowhere near sleep when she felt him move under the covers, not a simple shifting, but with soft, deliberate purpose: his arm stretching across his torso, hand coming to rest, carefully, just under her ribs. She shivered, and his hand stilled, his voice drifting towards her through the silence, low and rumbling.

"You remember everything. Don't you."

Phrased as a question, but not one—not really—and she nodded against his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut but still unable to block out the vividness, every last excruciating detail branded on her skin, her closed eyelids, her memory….

Every detail, except the one they needed.

"I never saw his face."

She felt him tense beside her, his hand quivering. "That son of a bitch," she thought she heard him mutter, and the sudden burning need to explain, to apologize, came crashing in like the tide after a storm at sea, bringing the flotsam and jetsam of the latest wrecks to surface: if she hadn't been there, had gone back, fought harder, if he….

House's hand tightened on her waist—lightly, just enough for her to feel it—his thumb tracing soft circles on her stomach, and she didn't resist the urge to place her own hand over his, where there was now nothing more to try to protect.

"Cuddy?"

His voice was breathy, perfect, and as she nestled closer to him (hating herself for needing to; loving more that, in this moment, he let her, even rested his head against hers), there was no possible way for her to answer except with a sigh. "Hmm?"

"You don't still snore, do you?"

* * *

**Okay--the next chapter _should_ be the last, so if there's anything you're still really confused about or think still needs to be told, let me know and I'll see if I can work it in. :)  
As always, thanks for reading--and I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	7. Thursday, 3:24 PM

**The final chapter! Thanks so much for reading and for your patience with the timeline. Special thanks to wrytingtyme, HotLipsPierce, Shikabane-Mai, borgprincess, Critical Blues, Merlynnod, sue, starkidtw, glicine, HolyMacaroni, Schuyler Lola, icarus abides, gidget89, HouseM.D.FanForever, A. Heiden, Pogo KW, Velimira, 7ala11, - Lazy Days - , stroky, jadedangel234, SmilinStar, CaptainTish, mandy9578, OperaticXingenue, HolidayArmadillo, i.have.an.idea, Leia Arletta, and Snivellusly Ozalan for leaving such awesome reviews.**

**Believe it or not, nearly catching up with the story's timeline is purely a coincidence. When I started this, I only needed some dates when it would be dark-ish early enough...**

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_**Thursday, Nov. 15, 3:24 PM**_

His already-bruised knuckles were white as he gripped his cane, so tightly that it hurt, and he was almost surprised when the cane didn't snap. The voice droned on in his ear, authoritative and cocky. "…another incident, this time at Plainsboro Park. Same timeframe, similar setup: female alone after dark. This victim wasn't as lucky as Ms. Cu—"

"Doctor."

He had been angry before—a nearly constant emotion for the past couple of days—but this abrupt flare of rage was so intense it barreled past every shade of red on the spectrum and barreled straight into vivid violet. _Lucky? The fucking bastard. If he for one second thought that—_

"Excuse me?" Lieutenant Whatever asked, clearly annoyed that his monologue had been interrupted.

"_Doctor_ Cuddy."

"Right. _Doctor_," the police officer agreed, though his tone implied that he didn't at all seem to think the distinction an important one. "With the hair samples and semen we collected from the second vic—"

"Listen, Officer—"

"_Lieutenant_."

"Like there's _really_ a difference," House scoffed, voice dripping with hatred and scorn and barely-contained fury that all somehow escaped the cop completely.

"Actually—"

"Do you have any _useful_ information or did you just call me to hear yourself talk?"

The split-second silence on the other end was answer enough. House had forced one of New Jersey's "finest" to deviate from his confident, "we can do no wrong" speech, and there was no chance in hell that anything the _lieutenant_ ad-libbed would be true or helpful. "No positive ID yet, but now that we've established a pattern, I'm confident we'll—"

Even though the slamming of the telephone receiver echoed loudly through his empty apartment, the gesture was nowhere near satisfying. House briefly considered seeing just how much time and effort it would take to smash the entire apparatus to smithereens, but instead settled for flexing his fingers, wincing. His hand ached, but at least in that there was some satisfaction—barely there anymore, but it had been, and that should have counted for something.

His leg was throbbing, the usual steadily pulsing twinge amped up, as if all the anger and aggravation of the past few days had decided to take up residence there—an annoying neighbor whose life seemed to consist of a single maddeningly loud party, interrupting the peace (thought and sleep) of everyone else on the block.

Gritting his teeth, House rubbed his thigh. The pain in his jaw, his knuckles, just wasn't enough, and maybe it _was_ what he had been looking for: a distraction. Wilson had been quick enough to point that out this morning—though House usually put little stock in anything his friend said while perched high on his moral pedestal (at least not until much later).

The knock on the door was forceful, jarring. He had known it would only be a matter of time before Wilson gathered his courage (and what little was usually left of his fury) to continue the lecture House had walked out on earlier.

"Before you put me back in a chokehold—"

But the hand that launched through the gap in the doorway, coming to rest on his forearm, wasn't Wilson's. Her touch was gentle, her voice, too, though she tried to frost it along the edges. "You broke his nose."

"Wilson?" he asked coolly, his elbow suddenly smarting as if remembering the swift connection with the other man's face. There probably should have been guilt there, but all he could manage was frustration (and relief at seeing her—but practiced nonchalance covered that well). "He deserved it. How did you get here?"

"Your clinic patient," Cuddy crisply corrected, a hand clutching her cell phone, and his stomach clenched as he thought of her receiving a call very similar to the one that he had just ended. "And I drove."

"_He_ deserved it even more."

House studied her as he spoke and she frowned. If anything, she looked worse than she had when he'd left her that morning, seemed to feel it, too, as she braced herself carefully on the doorframe. The stitches on her forehead stood out in dark contrast, even against the violent maroon of the bruise that surrounded them. She was dressed as if she had come straight from work, and he hoped the hospital hadn't been stupid enough to call her in to deal with the aftermath of his morning outburst, tried to maintain his scowl.

"You didn't mow down any old ladies on your way over here, did you?" he continued. "Lightweights like you shouldn't take painkillers and drive."

"_You _shouldn't be assaulting your patients."

"Would've been easier to yell at me over the phone." He held the door further open, letting her trip past him, a flurry of heat, pheromones, and slow, smoldering anger. She was trembling, trying not to, and by the way she cringed with each too-deep breath and the determined set of her jaw, he'd say she hadn't taken any of her pain meds since that morning. He felt a twinge of something, almost guilt, but stifled it quickly. "Guy was a smartass."

Shutting the door, he fished for his Vicodin, searched around for whatever he had last been drinking—clear, but definitely alcohol, and while drinks and drugs were, to him, as familiar a combination as Dick and Jane, peanut butter and jelly—he couldn't do that to her without feeling strangely bad about it.

"And you're not?"

Cuddy had wheeled around at his couch, used the back of it to lean on but refused to retreat to a seat on lower ground. It was a pointless endeavor—she _had_ to know that. He was still taller than she was, even when she wore those ridiculous heels, and knew how to loom over her in so many different ways: to win an argument, the upper hand; to make her uncomfortable; to set her heart racing (and his, by proxy)….

"If I hadn't popped him one," House stated as he approached her, making sure to stand much too close, pause, before continuing on his way, "he would've gotten it from someone else."

"That still doesn't…." She trailed off, and he could practically hear her frown, though he was already halfway towards the kitchen. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I can hear your screeching just as well from in here," he called, pulling a somewhat clean glass from the cabinet and rinsing it, voice rising over the rush of running water. "Go ahead."

But Cuddy refused to give him the satisfaction. When he shuffled back into the living room, she was still standing where he had left her, arms half-folded—left cradling the right, the brace just visible under the sleeve of her jacket. She looked drained—of everything: color, energy, patience—though he knew, at least, that she had gotten some sleep the night before. It had taken her awhile to drift off, and he hadn't followed till long after, listening to her breathing, her heartbeat, feeling her shift against him (trying to convince himself that all of this had kept him awake). It had only been a few hours stolen back from the pain, but it was a start.

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you." Her voice was more subdued now, and he could see her studying the new bruises on his face with something close to concern.

"Sit." He took a drink from the glass he held, only because it was something to do. "Come on—you know I never played well with others."

"You don't even make an effort." She was trying, almost desperately, to hold her ground, but if she didn't give in to him now, she would have to succumb to gravity later, as what little strength she had left failed her. This was one battle she simply wasn't going to win.

"Sit down, Cuddy."

He was close to her now, so close that he'd be able to push her back onto the couch himself with only a few more inches. She swallowed, her breath hitching on a sigh that he heard and saw and felt trembling through him. Her hand was on his chest now, pushing him away—startling at first, but the distance was just enough for her to slip past him and around the couch, settling onto the cushions.

She was watching him, waiting, raising an eyebrow as he took her hand, tipping two tablets onto her palm and holding out the glass of water. With her hurt wrist, the gesture should have either forced her to immediately swallow the Vicodin or refuse the water (and start an argument, give him an excuse to touch her), but she did neither, carefully spilling the pills onto her other hand and taking the water glass.

Retrieving his recently-rediscovered glass of gin, House emptied the pill bottle of the last two tablets and gulped them easily, draining the drink not because he needed it to wash them down, but because the burn of alcohol was soothing as it slid down his throat. The glass clanked loudly as he dropped it onto the coffee table, hunkering down beside it, his knee brushing hers. Cuddy jumped slightly—at the sound, the contact—cocking her head and staring at the pills she still held out in front of her.

"House." She took a breath, closed her eyes for just longer than it should have taken to blink. "It wasn't him."

And there it was—but gentle, almost with remorse.

He had known it already—before Wilson had intervened, yanking him by the collar (only succeeding in pulling him off the guy because of the gag reflex, air deprivation), even before his fist had first crashed against the patient's face. But the connection had been solid, fulfilling, and never having seen the face of the attacker, not really, it had been easy enough to make due with what life (and the clinic) presented him. He had been restless that morning, after his and Cuddy's lazy breakfast, and she hadn't told him to leave or asked him to stay—hadn't forced him to do his clinic hours, either, but that had eventually been where he'd ended up.

It had been a terribly fantastic five seconds: sharp, bony knuckles slamming into cartilage, tearing skin, scraping against teeth. The blows aimed against him had seemed feather-light, almost tickling—he could feel them now, in the aftermath, but at the time there had been much too much epinephrine, testosterone, for anything else to show through. It had been foolish, a mistake (not that he'd ever admit to it)—but it had felt damned good, and if Wilson hadn't interfered, more than the patient's nose would have been broken.

"Take those," he responded finally (even while they both knew he had heard her), tilting his cane towards her hand.

She didn't move at first, eyes locked so intently on his that he couldn't have looked away if he'd tried, and the swift break when her gaze swept from his to her palm was almost painful (or this might have been his headache catching back up with him). When he looked back at her again, the pills were gone, the tip of her tongue slipping from between her lips to catch a stray drop of water. She was watching her hands, quivering even as they curved around the glass, the clear liquid rippling within.

"It's not like one of your cases, House. Not something you can solve with a differential and a battery of tests. Sometimes—"

And he couldn't have stopped his hand from reaching out to her chin, tipping it upward, his body bending, even if he had wanted to (laughable, really). She had been bruised and broken—physically, emotionally—a thousand times more than he had, yet here she was, trying to comfort him. There was anger and frustration—at himself, at whoever had done this to her (to them)—a surge of some emotion so sudden and intense that it didn't have a name. Or maybe was just too many all at once: colliding, coalescing, convoluted and changing with every fraction of a second.

Behind his closed eyes, the spectrum spun like a pinwheel in a sudden rush of wind—glinting and metallic: the dark and vivid violet of anger twirling to heliotrope, lavender, mauve—taking with it the feeling of helplessness, dulling the blazing pain in his leg to the slow, familiar ache.

This was perfection, nostalgia—pure, simple, and….

Cuddy's lips were soft, surprised, and she gasped when he made contact. Maybe it was only to breathe, maybe in astonishment. Whatever the rationale behind it, he didn't hesitate to take advantage of her open mouth, and she didn't seem to mind, leaning into him as he twisted, bridging the gap between the table and the sofa without breaking contact.

Anyone who claimed that time (and one's heartbeat, breath, all ability to think) only stopped at death was either a complete moron or had simply never had the pleasure of kissing Lisa Cuddy.

The moment twisted, sticky and sweet as taffy, stretched out forever and not long enough. When she dropped her head downward, her lips trailing from his, he let her go, her cheek resting on his shoulder. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers working out forgotten kinks and knots while she caught her breath.

He was careful with her, so careful, as if she were hand-blown glass: dangerously fragile, transparent, something to behold. She could be sharp when she wanted to be—needed to, for him—could solidly support or stand her ground (there was a crack there—one that he could consistently worm his way through no matter how often she'd tried to repair it). Right now, she was nothing but delicate—almost strange when juxtaposed with her usual strength—all smooth, hollow curves and silk edges.

"You didn't let me finish," Cuddy finally sighed against his neck, trying (failing) to chastise.

"_You_ stopped me on my way to second base."

He felt the warm puff of breath against his skin—silent laughter (almost)—and then she pulled away, slowly canting back against the arm of the sofa. Her eyes never left his lips, but it was as if in separating herself from him, her thoughts had been flung thousands of miles away (no doubt pushed forward from the darkest recesses of her mind, where they had been lurking all along).

"The police—"

"Are idiots," he quickly snapped, instantly hating how vulnerable Cuddy suddenly became as she nodded in agreement, how admitting that seemed to tear from her what little hope and fortitude she'd had left.

The voice that followed was his—and the words—and even while he had known they were coming, it was still something of a surprise when they were only half-teasing. "Want to talk about it?"

It seemed to catch her off-guard, too, though she clung to the tone—soft and serious, but only as far as either of them wanted it to be. "When have we ever talked about anything?"

"_Argue_ about it, then?" This seemed to relax her, granted him that half-smile she could never quite suppress, so he continued on, the next logical stop after years of (disguised, almost workplace-appropriate) foreplay. "We could just skip all the chit-chat and get straight to the sex."

"Is it possible to have a conversation with you without it circling back to your sexual fantasies?"

"That's not even a real question."

And just like that—he had it. His fantasies. Hers. Not the same (for the most part—and in some places so different that they couldn't even be translated from one to the other), but would it really be such a terrible thing if some edges were trimmed, a few concessions made, so that they could somehow fit together? It wouldn't be neat and pretty—nowhere near picture-perfect (he could promise her nothing but blue eyes and a stubborn streak a mile wide). But it would be something—and the two of them, even if only for a few minutes at a time.

Cuddy was mid-comeback, but he didn't hesitate (never did) to interrupt. "The Make-A-Wish Foundation."

"House…." She was half-groaning, had followed his train of thought far enough to pick up the connection, but couldn't possibly know where he was going to stop next.

"I could—" He took a breath, tried to sound nonchalant—it was now or never. "—make a donation. If you wanted it."

"I thought you hated the idea," Cuddy responded after a moment, almost a whisper. Confusion, astonishment, all of it guarded—she was searching his eyes so intently that he could feel the heat in the space between them, but if she was looking for a punch-line, she wouldn't find it. She fidgeted, seemed to remember to continue the metaphor: "Of giving to charity."

Looking away before the raw emotion in her gaze could wrest any from his, House shrugged. "I'll do almost anything for a tax deduction."

"I don't doubt it," Cuddy murmured. This, too, was to cover the silence—ridiculous, really, since they both seemed to know the gesture was no longer required. But old, comfortable habits can sometimes never be broken.

"Now, plastic cups and used magazines never really did anything for me, but if you let me trade them in for your _C_-cups…."

She didn't respond—even while he had left her wide open—her arms folded across her stomach, chin tilted downward. And if she hadn't moved so suddenly, he might not have seen the light glint off her tears.

But then she was kissing him—long and hard and wanting, with a ferocity that she shouldn't have been in any shape to exude. Though he tried to be gentle in return, he knew when she moaned that it was pain more than desire, but let her continue. He had settled on violence earlier—this was her release, and it wasn't until he felt her breath hitch, the hot tears slide from her skin to his, that he eased her back to stillness, held her as the tears fell from a dozen different emotions: for everything that had happened, all she had lost, even what she stood to gain.

"If you really thought it was such a bad idea, you could've just said so," House teased, wishing it had come out as something more soothing (which really would have meant just as little—they were only words, after all), something more like, _Everything will be okay_. _Not right now. Maybe not even soon. But, eventually…._

Cuddy half-laughed through her tears—an exquisite sound—her fingers cold as they brushed against his, interlacing tightly the moment they made contact. _I know_, they said, _Thank you_, and even, _House…. _She had understood (always did), and he squeezed her hand to show that he did, too.

The silent conversation continued (endless)—conveying shades of thought and feeling that were too subtle for sound to convey. Through it, behind it, the banter continued—both of them talking, responding, biting back easily. Neither of them hearing a word.

* * *

**So it ends--and I hope it didn't disappoint (too much).  
****Again, thanks so much for reading (and reviewing)! I can't tell you guys enough how awesome you've all been. :)**


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